


Yes It Is

by lennons_lemon_queen



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, M/M, Struggles with Sexuality, coming of age romance, homophobia tw, suicide TW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-22 16:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lennons_lemon_queen/pseuds/lennons_lemon_queen
Summary: There's a deafening yell coming from Laraby's Pub in Woolton, and for the first time it's not a drunken row. There's music accompanying it.





	1. Just Because

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone!  
> This is my first fic in ages. And I'm sorry, I've been wanting to write, but so many things have happened.  
> But the other day I was listening to Rock n Roll ( John's '75 album of old classic covers) and the last song on the album was a polished version of this unforgettable recording [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p5L1REN3MeQ ]  
> Anyway, the way he was reminiscing during the song gave me an inspiration for a supposed explanation of why this particular song holds a piece of his heart.  
> I hope you all enjoy.

~September 1956~

   The nauseating scent of stale ale filled the bar. A few rugged looking patrons looked on as a young man swayed to his feet and proceeded to the mic stand on the little grimy stage up front. There wasn't supposed to be any more live music tonight as the band had already started packing, but he nodded at the guitarist and they burst into song once more. 

   As this was already taking place, a group of three boys walked in, all laughs and cheekiness. They looked far too baby-faced for the amount of leather they wore, but strode around confidently nonetheless. All except for one, who seemed to want to keep to himself as the other two headed for the bar. His attention was caught by someone loudly clearing their throat over the sound system. Someone who had had far too much to drink. 

   "This one goes out to the cunt that broke me heart."

 _Oh no..._ He thought.  _Someone's gotta save this poor chap before he humiliates himself..._

 

   But the first few chords of a bluesy ballad filled the thick air and by the way the singer picked up the mic from its stand, he assumed it was too late. 

   His voice was like broken glass and peroxide on an open wound. It stung with the emotional intensity and sheer bluntness of it all. 

  
_...Just because you left and said, goodbye_  
_Do you think that I will sit and cry?_  
_Even if my heart should tell me so_  
_Darlin', I would rather let you go_

   The singer stumbled slightly over the microphone cord and tried to steady himself with the stand. There was an excess amount of sweat dripping from his forehead onto his jacket and even the stage itself. He was of an average build, and, despite the tough act he put on, his features were strong yet soft. He had a very prominent straight nose that shone wet with sweat and two dark eyes that looked as if they struggled to see past the front of the stage. His head was plastered with wet auburn-flecked hair. 

   Paul, the aloof boy that had walked in with his merry lot was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. His black hair neatly combed back in an up-do and his mates, George and Richie were at the bar flirting with a couple of birds. It was supposed to be the ending to a fun night out on the pier, playing music in the streets for money and topping it off with a couple pints from the pounds they'd earned. But Laraby's obviously had something different in mind. 

 _Just because I want someone who's kind_  
_With a heart as good and pure as mine_  
_But maybe I am askin' for too much_  
_Darlin', please don't ever break my heart..._

 Paul felt a pang in his chest. He shook his head. 

    _What am I thinking?  Some drunk git is singing about some bird, per usual and I'm--sympathizing with him?! Has the world gone mad? Have I?!_

   He was grateful when George stopped by his table to bring him a beer. And then he looked up at the man on stage.

   "I have no idea." Paul said. 

   "How could you not?" George asked. "The Queen can probably hear him." 

   Paul snorted and got foam up his nose. "I was meaning that I don't know what he's on about, or where he came from."

   "Well, I don't think he's quite entertainment material, even for this rat trap."

   "No one's soddin' entertainment material when you've got more alcohol than a blood cell count." 

   George sat. "You've got a point." He sat back in his wooden chair and looked up again at the singer, before his eyes fell back on Paul, as if assessing something. 

   "Do you know him?"

   Paul nearly spit out his drink. "No!" 

   George laughed. "I was just askin'."

   Paul readjusted himself in his seat. "...I know."

 _I know you think you're **[hiccup]** smart_  
_Just runnin' around and breaking lovers hearts_  
  
_Just because you left and said, goodbye, hey_  
_Do you think that I will sit and **[hiccup]** cry?_  
_Even if my heart should tell me so_  
_Darlin', I would rather let you go_

Someone who Paul assumed was the manager came walking up to the stage and grabbed the man, now sobbing, by his arm and drug him off. 

   "Finally." George said under his breath. 

   Paul watched as he was thrown out of the bar, that same sad feeling sitting in the pit of his chest while George giggled and sipped his beer. 

   Paul sat back and crossed his legs, the soft squeak of creaking leather and he drained his glass.  

   "What's got your knickers in a twist?" George asked him. 

   Paul shrugged and looked to the side, watching people come in and out of the toilets. Most of them in groups, which unsettled him. 

   "C'mon, mate don't do this to me." George put his hand on Paul's shoulder. 

   "I'm gonna go get some air." Paul said before standing to leave. "Pass me a cig." 

   George begrudgingly complied and soon Paul was out in the crisp night air.

   The breeze came through off the ocean and it was as cold as ice--seemed to cut right through you. Thank God for leather. He lit the cigarette and blew a puff of smoke out that blended in with the black sky, thinking of how he felt. He had so many emotions bottled up inside, and so many thoughts, yet no places to express them. He was getting tired of it all. He didn't feel wanted or needed. Not even a sliver of significance to his existence. So, why did he have to go through it all? Why did he have to keep putting himself through the same old shite and pretend none of it mattered? With shaking hands and an unclear head, he slowly walked up to the railing between the harbor and the boardwalk. His skin was pale in comparison to the dark rails it grabbed and the icy cold water that awaited. He knew how to swim. He could always change his mind. But the coldness of the water would be too intense. No games there. 

   Paul gulped a lungful of freezing air before steadying himself on the railing. His heart was in his throat. All he had to do was do it. It was simple. He kept telling himself that but he couldn't move. A noise started him from his daze. Someone retching and coughing. He looked to the darkness on his left to try and see anybody, but the fog was too thick. 

   "Hello? Are you okay?" He called gingerly, his feet still on the railing. 

   More retching ensued, followed by a groan. The hair stood up on the back of Paul's neck. It was probably just some sick bum. But he cared nonetheless. Very gently, he stepped down off the railing and proceeded with caution to the sound. The outline of a figure hunched over the railing near a bench came into view. He kept his distance, but watched as they hobbled over to the bench and draped themselves over it exhaustively. The yellow light glimmering from the bar window was dim, but enough for Paul to make out his face. 

   "Are you the guy from the bar?" Paul asked.

   The man spit something on the ground and coughed. "Which one?" 

   "Er, that--one?" Paul gestured to the bar in front of them. 

   The man giggled, half mad. "I think so." 

   Paul resisted the urge to laugh and drew a bit closer. "I heard you from over there and I was just checking to see if you were okay." 

   "Oh, I'm fantastic. Nothin' like a good spew after twelve hours of drinking." 

   Paul's eyes widened. "Twelve hours?" 

   "Or, I dunno could be more, could be less." He stretched dramatically, with a theatrical yawn. "Why do you care, anyroad?" 

   "I-I don't know." 

   "Well, then son, join the fuckin' club." He patted on the bench next to his leg and Paul assumed that was an invitation. 

   There was a silence between them but it wasn't terribly awkward. More like a temporary rest from the hectic ongoings of everyday life. Paul kept thinking about what he could have done--what he almost did. and it began to gnaw on his conscience. And for some reason this man, who had made himself vulnerable in front of the entirety of Laraby's pub seemed like a good outlet. He would feel as if he were even with him in some way. 

   "I er, I almost offed myself." Paul muttered quietly. 

   The man blinked slowly, as if processing what he had said. "Wow, that's shit." 

   Despite how Paul felt he laughed at his reaction, snorting a bit amongst his giggles. Then the man next to him seemed to catch it and started laughing along with him. When it died down, Paul looked intently at this man, who he somehow admired. A bit in awe at the events that had taken place.

   "You're brave." Was all he said. 

   The man put his head in his hands and shook it. "No, son I'm not brave. Not in the slightest. It took near alcohol poisoning to get me to do that." He looked up and over at Paul in amazement. "What's brave is being nearly sober, and walking away from what you could've done." 

   Paul held his breath. "I guess-I guess it is." 

   "You've got guts, kid." He said with a smile that seemed to brighten the whole harbor. "I like that." 

   "What's your name?" Paul asked. 

   "John." 

   "Mine's Paul." 

   "Where are the rest of the disciples?" 

   "Out to lunch." 

   "Damn I really do like you." 

   Paul laughed. "Do you?" 

   John nodded. "I can't joke with many." He rubbed his hands together and placed them on his knees. "So that's saying something." 

   "I'm honored." 

   "That a pissed bloke puking in the harbor thinks you're cool?" 

   Paul laughed. "No. That you do." He smiled. "You look a bit like Elvis, too." 

   John's flushed face tinted further. "You sure you don't need glasses, mate?" 

   "Yes. But you probably do. Can you even see me right now?" Paul waved a hand in front of his face. 

   John laughed. "Piss off. M'glasses make me look like a ninny." 

   "That's exactly what a ninny would say." 

   John's smile widened. "I don't know if I want to fight you or buy you a pint." 

   "You've had enough." 

   "I agree." 

   Another comfortable silence enveloped them as they stared out at the dimly lit boardwalk. Paul didn't want to go home tonight. Not to that broken-record of a mess. His father would scold him for being out so late, and then he'd have to use half a bottle of cologne to cover up the scent of ale and cigarettes. Only to sleep on the floor in his brother's bedroom to avoid further interaction with the man. He liked how natural it felt to be around this person. It was a new comfort he had never before experienced. Like meeting an old friend, but without ever having had one. 

   "Ugh, I can't face me auntie like this. I hate it."  John mumbled, head in his hands.

   "Is she the strict type?" 

   "Only if you're an arse, like me." 

   Paul watched him as he took out a cigarette and lit it. 

   "But thankfully I've found ways to adapt." 

   "Can I've a drag?" 

   John's cheeks drew in as smoke billowed out of his mouth. "Sure." 

   Paul gladly accepted the ciggie, taking a smooth drag from it. "I've been avoiding things with my da since I was thirteen. He's a bit dodgy, that one." 

   A look of sympathy flashed across John's face. "Is he?" 

   "Yeah." Paul handed him the cigarette back. 

   "Well, have you ever climbed a wall before?" 

   "What kind of question--"

   "--Just go with it." 

   "Yeah, why?" 

   "If you need a place, I've got it."

   "What?"

   "Be in, and be out by five tomorrow morning. Those are the rules." 

   Paul stuttered. 

   "Are you with me?" 

   "...Yes." 

   "Alright." John offered Paul his hand to shake and an agreement was made. "...You play the guitar?" 

   "A bit. How can you tell?" 

   "You've got callouses that should start payin' ye rent." 

   Paul looked down at his hands, neatly kept, despite their frequented adventures. His cheeks tinted. "Oh." 

   "Keep at it, maybe I'll give you a listen someday." 

   Paul smiled.


	2. Come Go With Me

   "Ow! That's my leg!" 

   "Sorry." John hoisted Paul up to grab the window ledge. 

   It was pitch black, the only light a dim flicker from Mimi's room. 

   "Why can't we just go through the back door?" Paul pulled himself up and lifted the window just enough for him to slip through. 

    _Thud._  

   "Shhh!" John hissed. 

   "I'm sorry that I can't fall quieter!" Paul whispered. 

   John covered his mouth to stifle a snort. 

   Paul stood and brushed himself off before looking around the small room with yellowing posters and tattered wallpaper. There was a guitar standing alone in a corner, alone and a little turntable balanced on the nightstand. John slipped through the window, landing softly on his feet like a cat. 

   "It's not much, but it's a place to sleep." 

   Paul smiled. "It's got character." 

   John smiled back, and for a moment they just stood there. Paul yawned and sat down on the floor where he was. 

   "I'm gonna go ahead and kip, mate." 

   "Okay." John peeled off his leather jacket and pants, crawling into bed in his white tee-shirt and underwear. 

   "John?" 

   "Yeah?"

   "Aren't ya gonna close the door?" 

   John sighed, getting up to pull the white chipped door closed as carefully as humanly possible. Meanwhile Paul tried not to laugh. 

   John laid there in bed for the longest, staring at the ceiling, counting the lumps in the paint. He glanced over at the leather lump lying on his rug and noted that it was asleep before reaching inside his nightstand drawer for a pair of black square glasses and a copy of 'Alice in Wonderland.' With a yawn, he sunk lower in his pile of blankets, eyes lazily skimming the pages. Paul pried open one eye and looked up at John, another smile spreading across his lips. John looked up from the top of the book and felt his heart drop. 

   "What?" He asked, defensively. 

   Paul was still smiling. "Nothing." 

   "You looney, what're you smiling at?"

   "Nothing! I was just curious as to what you were reading and instead of the porn mag I expected it's literature. That's all." 

   John rolled his eyes and set the book down next to him. "Go to sleep."

   "Y'know you can tell a lot about a person by what they read." 

   "And you can also tell a lot about a person by where they end up at the end of a long night." 

   Paul went pale. 

   John's smirk faded. "What?" 

   Paul shook his head. "Nothing." 

   John looked back down at his book, his mind unable to process the words in front of his nose even as he read over them five times. His thoughts were elsewhere. Just who exactly was this boy anyway? And what had gotten him so upset? Was he a criminal running from the law? A homeless kid? Or just a brokenhearted drifter? He seemed too clean-cut to be involved in crime, too much innocence shone in his eyes. 

   "What were you doing out by the wharf that late?" John asked quietly, hoping he wasn't stepping out of line. 

   Paul sighed deeply, turning over and pulling the side of the rug over onto him like a blanket. "Just out having a drink, mate." 

   "In the ocean?" 

   "Oh, come off it. I was trying to get away."

   "Get away from what?" 

   "Everything, I guess."

   "Life that bad, eh?"

   "As of late, it seems, yes." 

   "What's got you down? Is your dad that bad?"

   "What are you, my psychiatrist?" 

   "I was only curious."

   "Why don't you be curious some other time?"

   John went quiet a moment, absentmindedly turning a yellowed page in his book. "Family quarrels?"

   "Piss off."

   "I've already had a good piss off the dock."

   Paul huffed and buried his face into his pillow. "Why did I ever agree to go home with you? You're off your rocker." 

   "So what? I've lost everything else I might as well have lost my mind along the way." John mumbled to himself.

   "What?" 

   "Nothing."

   Paul sat up, suddenly interested. "No, no what did you say?"

   John put his book on his nightstand and lowered his glasses. "I said, nothing." 

   "Was it that girl?"

   "What girl?"

   Paul raised his neat eyebrows. "Don't tell me you've forgotten!" 

   "Oh, that tart I was yelling about." John sighed. "I mean I really cared about her, but she had other plans." 

   "So that's not what you were talking about?"

   "It's late, the sun will be up in a mere four hours and I want to get some sleep." 

   "I'll go to sleep if you tell me who you were talking about."

   John pinched the bridge of his nose and laid down in bed with a flop. "My mum." He murmured.

   "You're what?"

   "My mother, you ninny."

   "Well, what about her?"

   "She's dead!"

   Paul felt as if an arrow were fired through his chest, and the room filled with silence. Flashbacks from two years ago suddenly filled his mind and it was as if it had just happened all over again. Tears filled his eyes quicker than he had a chance to cover for and before he knew it he was sobbing silently. And he wasn't the only one. John was hyperventilating from his tears, and he could hear the little hitches in his breath. He moved over to the bed on his knees, reaching out for John's shoulder. 

   "I didn't even know her..." 

   "John,"

   "It wasn't right!"

   "John,"

   "What?"

   "I've lost mine too." 

   "You-You have?"

   "Yeah." Tears were still falling over Paul's cheeks. 

   "Isn't that the pits..." John tried to dry his eyes a little, but his body was still wracking with sobs and his nose running like a faucet. 

   "It is." Paul had the sudden urge to comfort him, and so he took the initiative. He laid gently beside John, still as a statue, and lightly patted his shoulder. 

   John jumped at first, looking over to see Paul in his bed, but he accepted the closeness gratefully. He hadn't been touched this meaningfully in a while. Aside from the occasional 'I'm sorry if I come across as hard on you' speeches from Aunt Mimi. 

   "And hey, guess what?"

   "What?"

   "Even though you were pissed out of your mind, you make a pretty decent singer." 

   "Thanks." John huffed a laugh before drifting off. 

   Within ten minutes, the both of them had fallen asleep. 

   


End file.
